a spreading of wings, a bating of breath, a sense of something coming

Hardly any space (or weight) at all

We condense like stars gone super-nova into black holes the more we are exposed. On the brink or edge or precipice of an awful something. A something coming, coming undone, splintering and leaving residue in the skin of our arms.

Reaching out, we often find there is nothing to grasp hold of. Falling head-first down a well someone else devised. Social insanity is what we’re left with, I suppose.

Call me paranoid, but I think this dread is not going to shed like a winter skin. Like layers of wool or fat. Whatever’s settling in combines with this burden of chemcial’s we’ve got, this burden of debt and doubt we’ve got, this burden of fat collecting like circles and globes in all the wrong places. Spreading tentacles through our blood and bones and breaking us apart.

My body is cracking up into bits and my mind is shattering like a window with a brick thrown through it. I’m cutting up my metaphorical hands to put it back together and wishing, wishing, wishing it didn’t hurt so bad.

But when it doesn’t ache, it burns. And when it doesn’t sting, it nags like a hangnail in the back of my mind.

Something inextricable is wrong inside. My whole body, the whole world knows. We’re bating life and we’re biding time and I’m coming unbinded like bad chemistry.

Keep death and suffering in mind because the road we go is the way others have gone before us, and if they had known, we wouldn’t have ended up so high up this moutnain with no ties and no bindings and no way down but a long, tragic plunge.

Rocks and thorns will cut us up just the same.

I know. I’m on the side of losing, and well — that’s alright for now.
When I lose, you’ll say I told you so, and I might even agree. But for now? Quit that bellyaching and shut your goddamn mouth. Hey.